Summary

Henry Britton Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land…

As the canoe, named the Marama, or Lady, gently made her liquid way, fresh headlands or islets came into view, and as we glided through the soft sunlight, we seemed to form a part of some magnificent mirage of a painter’s dream.
The Fijian sailors, like those of other countries, have their superstitions. When there is a calm they whistle to the wind, or say sweet things to it, using every art of verbal cajolery to lure it to their craft. The shark is one of their gods. By every sailor tribe he is regarded as a deadly enemy, and extraordinary efforts are made to propitiate him when at sea.
Source: Gutenberg

Henry Britton Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land…

I cried, as I was hurried away, though I believed my hours were numbered. “I will come with the front of battle and the thunder of Britain, and Bent-Axe shall see if a white man can be tortured with impunity.”
“Every man is a wind in his own bay,” laughed the savage. “You are not in the land of the white man now, and your words are as idle as the sea-foam. To-morrow’s sun will see the fair Lolóma at rest in these arms.”
Source: Gutenberg

Henry Britton Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land…

The cocoanut tufts on the beach were waving dismally like funereal plumes, when an immense wave dashed upon the barrier with the roar of a thunder-clap, sending a vast column of foam into the air. The sun showed himself with sudden brightness through the clouds, and the sifted spray was shot with all the prismatic hues. Now I remembered the Fijian belief that when the reef roars louder than usual it is a sign that the newly departed spirit has been borne to the future world on a rainbow.
Source: Gutenberg

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